Winter in Thrush Green (21 page)

The thought of action against this infiltrating enemy cheered Ella at once, and the two drank their coffee and ate their habitual toast and marmalade in the snug kitchen and made plans like a pair of generals at the beginning of a campaign.

'We must bring the spades inside tonight,' said Ella briskly, 'in case we have to dig ourselves out tomorrow. It looks quite likely. I'll bring in extra coke, coal and wood, and it might be a good idea for you to take extra milk today. The milkman's on the other side of the green. Let's put a note out now.'

'You think of everything,' said Dimity, with admiration. 'I must put out more food for the birds, poor things, before I go to church.'

'I suppose you have to?' queried Ella. 'It'll be perishing cold, and everyone will be teeming with revolting germs. There's flu about, they tell me.'

'Yes, of course I must go,' said Dimity with quiet firmness. 'Charles would be most upset, if I failed to go.'

Ella's massive hand held the coffee pot arrested in mid-air as she looked at her friend.

'I believe you're right,' she said slowly.

It snowed for two days without ceasing, and an easterly wind, which sprang up during Sunday night, caused drifts several feet deep. Banks of snow reached to the windows of 'The Two Pheasants' and completely covered the white fence at the village school hard by. The lane to Nod and Nidden was impassable by Tuesday, and the two hamlets were cut off from the outside world. The snow ploughs were out along the main road from Lulling to the north, but the steep hill was so slippery that little could be done there. The older inhabitants spoke longingly of the handrail which had once lined the path to the town, as they slithered, with socks over their Wellingtons, to gain a foothold on the slope.

The Lulling shops were under-staffed, for many of their assistants lived in outlying villages and were unable to get into the town. Delivery vans were few and far between, and neighbours lent each other cupfuls of sugar and packets of tea as supplies became short.

Influenza had spread in the little town, with such alarming rapidity that the preparatory school attended by Paul and his friend Christopher had closed for a week in the hope that this might arrest the spread of infection.

After the first few days of joy Paul soon became bored. Snow showers continued intermittently throughout the week, and the nights were bitterly cold. His mother only allowed him to play outside for short spells, but towards the end of the week she invited Christopher to play during the hours of daylight, as both boys were in the rudest health and were obviously not going to succumb to the prevaing plague.

Paul was delighted to have company. In the afternoon, a watery sun tried to shine through scudding clouds, and Joan said that they might go out for a time.

'Let's go to the camp,' said Paul as soon as they were outside. 'It's years since we were there.'

They crept through the hole in Harold Shoosmith's hedge, skirted the shrubbery which had protected the path from the worst of the snow and struggled along to the tree.

Here a deep drift made it impossible for them to go further. The snow had been swept into a vast billow delicately patterned with a tracery of whorls and curves. Beyond it stretched the snowy valley, with Dotty's cottage a mere hump in the vast-ness. The house looked dead. No smoke rose from the chimney, no one moved behind the closed windows and there was no sign of life anywhere.

Paul, used to seeing Dotty pottering about her colourful garden, hearing the squawking of her hens and the companionable mewing of Mrs Curdle as she followed her mistress about, suddenly felt a spasm of inexplicable fear.

'There's nobody there," he said, gripping Christopher's arm. 'It looks all wrong.'

'Only because of the snow,' said Christopher sturdily. 'It's all this whiteness. Makes you feel sick after a bit, my mother says, because our eyes are used to lots of colours.'

This scientific explanation did not satisfy Paul.

'I don't mean that,' he protested. 'It looks as though Miss Harmer's gone away. But she
never
goes away, Chris. Never! She's got the animals to look after.'

While Paul gazed with anxiety at the house and his friend gazed at him with perplexity, a terrifying thing happened. One of the upstairs windows slowly opened, and a witch-like form, with grey eldritch locks hanging round a paper-white face, sagged over the sill. A skinny arm began to swing an old-fashioned hand-bell, and the eerie notes clanged across the snowy wastes to the frightened boys.

'It can't be Miss Harmer,' whispered Paul, white as a ghost.

'It is! said Christopher shakily. 'And she's ill or something. She wants help.

'We can't get through that drift,' answered Paul, with a hint of relief in his voice. 'Let's shout to her and tell her we'll get help.'

They cupped their hands round their mouths and began to call to the small wild figure. The bell kept up its erratic din, now loud, now soft, but the toller gave no sign of hearing the answering cries from the boys.

At that moment, Harold Shoosmith, clad in fishing waders and an oilskin, appeared from his garden and approached the children.

'How long has this been going on?' he asked.

They spoke together in a rush, too relieved to see help to worry about their trespassing.

'It's Miss Harmer—' began Paul.

'She must be ill,' said Christopher. 'She's just come to the window.'

'We were shouting to tell her we'd get help,' continued Paul.

'It's too deep for us to get through.'

'I'll go and get a spade,' said Harold. 'You wait here,' he added, 'I may need you.'

They watched him plough back towards the house. The figure still sagged from the window, the bell hanging silent in one hand.

'Mr Shoosmith's coming!' shouted Paul encouragingly. He felt brave with relief, and almost began to enjoy the adventure.

'We're going to help him!' bellowed Christopher, not to be outdone.

By way of reply it seemed, the bell gave a convulsive ring and fell from the inert hand into the muffling snow below. The figure slid out of sight, presumably to the bedroom floor. Alarm seized the boys again.

'It's the shock,' said Paul aghast. 'We've jolly well killed her!'

For once, Christopher was too stunned to reply. At this moment Harold appeared again, armed with two spades and a coal shovel.

'She's fallen down,' quavered Paul.

'Then there's no time to lose,' said Harold briskly. 'We'll see how we get on, but if it's deeper than we think, one of you must run for more help.'

He set to, and cleared a way through the first deep drift, the boys flinging the snow energetically aside, pink-faced with excitement and exercise. Luckily, they soon came to shallower snow, and Harold proceeded alone, the snow almost to the top of his waders, unI'll the garden gate was reached.

'Stay where you are,' Harold ordered. He struggled over the gate. He was beginning to wonder just what he would
find inside the house. No sound had come from it, and he was secretly most alarmed.

He had to dig his way again through the garden. The snow had drifted into grotesque shapes against the hen house and the cottage.

After ten minutes' struggle he reached the back door. He was perspiring with his exertions, and the oliskins were horribly stuffy. He found the door unlocked, and entered the kitchen.

It was very cold and quiet. An unpleasant smell, compounded of stale food, drying herbs and cats, greeted him. The clock had stopped, the barred grate was full of grey ash, and a spider had spun its web from a cold saucepan on the hob to the wall near by.

'Anyone at home?' called Harold. 'Are you there, Miss Harmer?'

There was no reply. Harold stamped the snow from his boots and mounted the stairs. The sound of frantic mewing reached his ears from behind a closed door. He undid the latch and out bolted Mrs Curdle, followed unsteadily by four young kittens. They vanished downstairs, presumably in search of food.

The only other bedroom had its door propped open. There Dotty lay, crumpled on the floor, by the open window.

Harold was relieved to find that her eyes were open and that she was attempting to speak. She looked desperately ill, and her breathing was loud and stertorous. He lifted her on to the untidy bed and covered her gently.

'Just he there for a moment,' he said. 'Now don't worry about a thing.'

He strode to the window and leant out.

'Cut back home, Paul,' he shouted, 'and ask your mother to ring Doctor Lovell. I'm going to carry Miss Harmer to my house. She's not well.'

'Me too?' asked Christopher.

'No. I may need you,' said Harold. 'Hang on there.'

Dotty was becoming agitated, rolling her untidy grey head from side to side restlessly. Harold went closer to hear what she was trying to say.

'Poor cats! Poor chickens! No food!' croaked Dotty.

'What about you?" asked Harold. 'When did you eat last?'

She shook her head.

'I'm going downstairs to get you a hot drink, and I'll sec to the animals,' he promised. 'Then we must get you out of this.'

He closed the window, switched on an archaic electric fire, which looked none too safe for his peace of mind, but was better than nothing, and departed downstairs.

The cats mewed plaintively, and he explored the tiny larder. A bottle of milk was now solid cream cheese, but a dozen or more tins of cat food, prudently purchased by Dotty at the onset of the blizzard, cheered him. He opened two, scooped out the contents and let the cats wolf it down. Dotty's provender was harder to find, but he discovered some Bovril and an electric kettle and soon returned to the bedroom with a steaming cup.

The warmth of the bed and the room seemed to have given poor Dotty more strength. She sipped her Bovril gratefully. Harold wondered how she would react to his suggestion that he earned her bodily up the hill to his own house. It was quite apparent that she was desperately ill. Ideally, she should not be moved, but the house was cold, without food, and inaccessible. If he could get her to Thrush Green then Lovell could take over. She was as light as a bird, and the path had been made. It should not be too difficult a journey, but he must wrap her up well. He looked at the shabby coats hanging behind the door with a speculative eye.

'I'm taking you to Thrush Green,' he said, with gentle
authority. 'Then Doctor Lovell can have a look at you. You'll have to let me carry you, you know.'

'No need,' wheezed Dotty, surprisingly acquiescent. 'Sledge downstairs.'

'How splendid!' cried Harold. I'll go and get it ready.'

He found old Mr Harmer's masterpiece, and some leather straps, hanging in the lean-to. He collected some spare blankets from the room in which Mrs Curdle and her kittens had been incarcerated and made a warm comfortable bed upon the sledge, and then returned for his patient. It seemed most practical and decorous to wrap the old lady in the warm bed clothes which already surrounded her, and carrying the unwieldy bundle, Harold stepped carefully down the staircase and deposited her on the sledge. He returned for a pillow, and leant from the window to shout to his assistant who was busy making a snow man.

'Be ready,' he called. 'I'm bringing Miss Harmer on a sledge. Are you warm enough?'

'Boiling!' said Christopher, scarlet in the face.

Harold closed the window, switched off the fire, gathered up the pillow and returned downstairs.

'Drink,' said Dotty, looking exhausted.

Harold hurried to get a glass of water.

'Cats!' said Dotty, with weak exasperation. Harold meekly filled a bowl and put it on the floor.

'I promise you,' he said solemnly, 'that someone will come and look after all the animals, as soon as we've got you safely in bed again.' He strapped the small figure safely on to the sledge, tucked an old mackintosh over and under the whole contraption and set off through the snow to Thrush Green.

The journey was comparatively easy, and Dotty stood the jolting well. Harold was glad, however, of Christopher's
help, and tireder than he cared to admit when he finally arrived, by way of the garden, at the corner house's back door.

To his relief, Joan Young was there with Paul awaiting him, and he left her to put Dotty to bed in the spare room while they waited for the doctor.

Whisky and soda in hand, he stood at the sitting-room window watching the trees dropping flurries of snow as the wind caught them. If there were much more of this weather, thought Harold gloomily, they would not get Nathaniel's statue erected in time. He resolved to find out more from Edward Young about the progress he had made.

At that moment, young Doctor Lovell appeared and Harold took him upstairs to the patient.

Paul and Christopher were on the landing, gazing from the window. It occurred to Harold that the two boys might well be tired and hungry too.

'Come down to the kitchen,' he said, "and we'll find some biscuits and a hot drink.'

'Not
hot;
begged Paul.

'What then?' asked Harold. 'Iced lemonade?' he added amusedly, looking at the bitter world outside.

'Oh please!' breathed the two fervently, following him downstairs. Shuddering, he led them to the refrigerator.